i'LL Melt Your Popsicle
by twowritehands
Summary: Freddie didn't want his best friend to change. He liked that she was who she was and that she changed for no one. He just wanted to stop dreaming about her. Seddie.


Disclaimer: the real iCarlies aren't this steamy hot.

_A/N: For some reason, Freddie's life in this seems like a Katy Perry song, so that's where the title comes from_

**Freddie**

The _Freddie Benson Plan_ was a plan of perfection.

Freddie had his life planned out: Get awesome grades, go to college, get a job, fall in love, buy a house, have a family. He knew what he was going to do ever since he first said 'and in 5, 4, 3, 2'—and pointed a camera. It was the final piece of the puzzle, the perfect job to go with the perfect family he would one day have, starting with the perfect wife. As a kid, Carly had seemed to be the one. She was perfect by anyone's standards, so it had been a real shocker when he finally got her and didn't want her.

Okay, he'd wanted her—no breathing boy didn't want her.

But he didn't get _her_, he got a girl who was blindly following an infatuation, a crush that he knew would fizzle out and leave him high and dry. That wasn't what the perfect wife did, the perfect wife loved unconditionally and endlessly. She was smart, pretty, and had a sense of humor, but most importantly—and he could never stress this enough—his perfect wife was someone _not_ crazy.

If it was the last thing he ever did, Freddie Benson would find a woman with _sanity_, if anything just to give his future children a fighting chance. But mostly just to keep his own. No way could he put up with another crazy Mrs. Benson.

Which was why he so resented the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Sam.

And for some time now.

She was crazy, not in the way Marissa was, but crazy nonetheless

There was no denying it, even Carly had a streak of crazy in her—that Shay streak that was so prominent in Spencer—but it was the nice kind of crazy, the zany fun crazy; Sam's crazy was something scarier.

Violent.

Unpredictable.

Uncontrollable.

Sam was these words and these words were Sam. She punched hard enough to leave bruises the size of grapefruits. One moment she was a friend, the next an enemy, one moment practically a boy, the next she was very clearly a girl. Sometimes he thought she was going to hit him but then she would just smile at him. Then later he would find a tarantula in his car. She left bruises one day, and lipstick prints the next. She did what she wanted to do, when she wanted to do it. She thought nothing of rules, except maybe as dares to do the thing they were against.

Freddie didn't want his best friend to change. He liked that she was who she was and that she changed for no one.

He just wanted to stop dreaming about her.

**Sam**

Sam loved three things in the world, okay four.

The first was meat. Vegetarians were stupid, and so were kosher people. Pork rocked. End of story. Get me some bacon.

The second was winning. Didn't matter what it was so long as it wasn't something nerdy like homework—Sam believed that academic education was severely overrated. There was nothing important she could learn in school that she wouldn't learn in life. Her love of winning started at a young age with beauty pageants, thumb wrestling, and playing chicken on bicycles. Then it turned into being the toughest. Then it started being about coming out on top in practical jokes. She never ever, _ever_ settled for even. Momma loved to win, so she was gonna.

The third was the newest, cooking. She had always been too lazy before but graduating high school forced her to make decisions and culinary school was the best thing she could have ever did. Ever.

How awesome was it that chefs got an entire kitchen, an entire stock of food, plus a whole room full of people to order around, people that could be fired on the spot and no one would question it. She couldn't wait to have a kitchen of her own.

Her forth love was bugging Freddie. He was all about rules, orderliness and perfection. That was his mom in him, poor kid. She liked to think that she was saving him when she disrupted his life, preparing him for the messy disaster of the real world. In this way of looking at it, she was a hero and she liked that.

An added perk to the job of stamping Marissa out of her son was that he was the perfect target on which to test her strength, her wit, even her beauty. That last one started senior year when she once wore a low cut shirt and daisy dukes and she caught him staring at her, _not_ Carly as he had been doing for years.

The satisfaction that came from drawing a boy's attention—even if it was just Freddie—while Carly was near had opened the floodgates. Since then she liked to randomly abandon her comfortable tom-boy cloths for something a little more girly and attractive. Carly called these stages "bracing her daffodility" but Sam thought of it more as daffo-sex-adility, since her outfits were designed more for a girl of her confidence than a nice girl like Carly. She liked to walk into a room showing off a lot of freshly shaved leg and watch his eyes widen. She _loved_ catching him staring and making him pay for it.

The nub.

**Freddie**

Did she like him or what?

He had no clue.

She agreed to kiss him once, commanded him when to lean. She kissed him of her own volition another time, catching him off guard and letting him taste her tongue. But what did it mean? He was a big fan of that second one and remembered it vividly, even now years later, but he still had no idea what it really meant.

They never talked about it.

How they managed to do that, he would never know. He could just recall a blurry, hazy time filled with awkward moments of thrilling maybe-she'll-do-it-again's and terrifying Oh-Chiz's because sometimes he really truly thought she just might actually do it again. He'd enjoyed it—no teenaged boy with a pulse wouldn't have—but it terrified him. He wouldn't know what to do with Sam as a… girl.

Thankfully, there had been no more kisses, just (not-so-thankfully) twice the punches.

Eventually, the whole thing faded into No Big Deal. It got old to fret about it or something. Carly stopped looking apprehensive to leave them alone. Sam stopped threatening him if he ever looked at her too long. He kissed other girls. She was back to being his unique friend Sam who ate a lot of ham, broke thumbs, and won beauty pageants.

That is, until senior year, when Freddie began to frequently find himself in hell, in daisy-duke hell.

Old jeans, cut off so short the pockets sometimes poked out below the frayed hems. She didn't wear them all the time, but when she did, he noticed. Every. Single. Time. She had great legs. Inevitably, noticing her legs just led to him noticing her butt, then the curve of her back, then her hair, then her neck, then her breasts, and then her stomach and then the front of her daisy-dukes where the denim wrapped around her inner thighs, then uh-oh.

He spent a year averting his eyes and hiding shivers, praying to God, and trying to play it cool. Then, after graduation, at a pool party at Gibby's, she was wearing the short shorts over her bikini and she did a back bend in his line of sight. He, of course, noticed. Then he noticed something else—the way her eyes darted to him when she straightened up, the way she _almost_ smiled. He realized she was doing it on purpose.

He hated her for it. He loved her for it. His blood was pounding hot through his body and he was in hell for it.

From years of fighting, struggling, scrambling, often bleeding in order to remain on even footing with Sam Puckett, with the realization that she was deliberately toying with him came a second a wind; the strength to _ignore_ the legs when they walked in below the daisy dukes on a hot summer day. Ha, take that, Puckett. I won't be your slobber dog.

He knew her love of winning. He put it together that she thought of being sexy as some kind of way to prove she was the best. Suddenly life was her beauty pageant and it was not rated PG. Hell, those daisy dukes were uncensored to the umpteenth degree. And if anything kept Freddie Benson alive through high school, it was his inability to sit back and let Sam walk all over him. She always did in the end, but not without a fight from him first. He always fought back and that was what mattered.

After that, if ever she caught him staring, it was an honest moment of weakness on his part and he took the abuse—physical, verbal, mental—and wore it like a badge of honor. Next time, he'd do better.

And so it was through the first year of college.

But lately, thoughts were preoccupying Freddie. She was still doing it, still dressing in something sexy and doing things to provoke him. Why? Could she really be that cold—to jerk a boy around like that? He didn't like to think so.

So did that mean that she—he was hesitant to even think it—that she cared?

He had thought daisy duke hell had been bad. That had actually been fun compared to this. This was real hell, what he thought of as, the Benson Plan Failing hell.

The plan, his plan for having the perfect life, was going well on other fronts. He was getting excellent grades in school, he was still filming iCarly, he even had a part time job as a camera crewman for a local news channel, but one little thought worried him.

No other girl got under his skin, seeped into his dreams, and got him as physically excited as Sam did.

He knew there was a difference between lust and love.

But he also knew that love had to have a physical attraction component, and how the hell was he supposed to love someone if he was forever going to compare them to the way Sam made him feel. Because he did do that, and he found out the hard way.

A cute girl with wonderful smelling hair and no shyness about touching things had him all to herself and—well—he was having a good time, obviously. But… with his heart racing and things starting to happen, he found himself wondering that if it was Sam (who already had his heart pounding like this just by walking by in shorts) wouldn't it be _even better_?

It was all part of her plan, her nasty, evil, Puckett plan, to ruin his sex life, to make him a dud or something. Of that he was absolutely sure of on most days… but then a little voice would ask… _or maybe she just wants you to herself_?

Did she like him, or what?

He had no clue.

**Sam**

She didn't like Freddie. Not like _that_. He was a nub, for goodness sake! She only dressed up and teased him as a kind of practice for real guys. After years of being thought of as another one of the boys, she loved to make them trip over themselves, or act like fools. At first, she had tried to practice how to do that on Gibby—and it was a lot of fun, until he had her alone, breathless, giggly and ready to tell him anything. About that time, she'd realized it wasn't going to work out. She had then considered practicing on Carly—but that would just freak the pris out. Freddie had literally been her last resort.

So along side sharpening her wit and using him as a punching bag, she practiced her walks, wiggles and bends on him, too—an easy target, but he was all she had. After a while, she graduated to touching, provoking the losses of breath and trembles. From there began the kissing and groping to produce groans, and eyes rolling into the backs of heads. She loved the way she commanded him, had him wrapped around her finger.

Even after she mastered all of it, she kept practicing on him but only as a kind of prompt for Carly and Gibby. The freaks liked each other, but they were both too nice to blow off her or Freddie in order to make out. So, Sam, being the good friend that she liked to think she was, went ahead and eliminated the need by breaking the kissing ice. There, two of them were already making out, so the other two might as well start.

It never actually worked out that way. All that usually ended up happening was Sam wrestling Freddie into submission and kissing him until she couldn't taste bacon anymore. Gibby stayed in his recliner, and Carly stayed curled up on the love seat alone. Freddie went home all hot and bothered and Sam gave her friends pointed, meaningful looks that they ignored. Both of them knew why she was doing this. She'd explained her plan to each of them in confidence, but had failed to mention it to Freddie.

For some reason Gibby wouldn't turn on the charm that had bimbos hanging all over him at school, even though Sam had told him that that was all Carly was waiting for. And honestly it was. She liked his swaggering confidence, but all he ever showed her was quiet uncertainty and embarrassment, like Freddie. Sam had warned him that Freddie had nubbed his way into the Like-A-Brother compartment and wasn't ever getting out, but Gibby just wouldn't listen, kept turning into some kind of speechless gorilla in front of her.

And because of that, Carly wouldn't believe Sam or Freddie when they told her Gibby had a thing for her. They couldn't quote him on it so she would believe it when she heard it. They couldn't get Gibby to admit it no matter how hard they tried. Freddie had given up. Sam wasn't going to—even if it meant locking them in a barn and turning the lights down low.

So in the commercial breaks every TV night at Gibby's apartment, Sam cornered Freddie in the kitchen or the hallway or the couch and kissed him. At first he was petrified and stood perfectly still until it was over. Then, he started responding to the surprise kisses and kissing her back. That was fun. Her favorite part was making him pay for slip-ups, like when he touched her butt or boobs or slipped her a little too much tongue. The nub got swept up in this stuff way too easily. It was actually very amusing, and Sam found herself testing his limits.

**Freddie**

He didn't know what the hell to call it but he wasn't too concerned about finding a label for it, just a pattern, a motive. She had to have ulterior motives. She _had_ to. He saw it in her face, the way she smirked at him when the kissing was over. Ha, that was something I had to do and now its over.

But why?

She didn't like him. She was too mean to like him. And if she like him, how could she do this to him, get him all worked up and then put on the brakes. It was cruel. Even Sam wouldn't do something cruel to someone she liked… would she?

But why else would she be doing it?

He could ponder on this for hours.

He realized that she only did it when they were all hanging out with Gibby. So, what, she liked Gibby—was trying to make him jealous or something? That idea was so strange it took a while to wrap his head around it. Gibby liked Carly. And Carly liked him back. He and Sam knew this, they'd talked about it once… But did Sam like him, too? It wouldn't be the first time they liked the same boy.

He could have asked Sam, but that would cost him dexterity in his thumbs for the few weeks it would take for the bones to heel.

He asked Gibby instead.

"Hey, Gib," he said when they were Carly-and-Sam free in the chemistry lab after class.

"Sup?" Gibby asked.

"Does Sam come on to you?" he asked.

"What?" he laughed.

"Seriously—has she ever given you reason to think maybe she likes you?"

Gibby frowned, "Well, she does wear little things and wiggle a lot when she's around…" Gibby was frowning, deep in thought and Freddie's suspicions were confirmed, until Gibby continued, "But she does that when she's around any guy. Even you."

He shrugged his beefy shoulders, "Well, we made out that one time, but since then? No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Just wondering…" Freddie sighed, defeated, because he knew that Gibby was right. While she seemed to go out of her way to be provocative around Freddie, she was sexy and flirty with _all_ guys she saw.

Gibby lowered his voice, "While we're on the subject—do you think you can say something to her about that?"

"About what?"

"About how she acts with guys—she's going to push some guy too far and then she'll be in trouble." Gibby's eyes were wide with fear and worry, "Not all guys are like you and me, Fred, one of them might get mad and hurt her—do something bad."

Freddie instantly waved it off, not at all ready to think of Sam in any role resembling a victim, but Gibby gave him a hard look, "She's stronger than you and that's got her thinking she's a lot tougher and stronger than she is," he said, "That might get her killed or worse."

Freddie had honestly never considered it before, that his and Gibby's control might be unique in a long line of guys that Sam had fun rubbing up against. The thought scared him—and made him want to kill any guy who would be a threat to her.

"Wait," Freddie stopped Gibby as he turned to follow the last few students from the class room, "Why do you want me to talk to her—why can't you?"

He shrugged, "She's always got her guard up around me," and then he was gone.

What, and she didn't have her guard up around Freddie? Ha! Did Gibby think that when she had him pinned to the couch cushions that she was being _vulnerable_ or something? Freddie laughed and shook his head. Gibby _would_ imagine all girls turning in a soft puddle of I'll Share Anything With You in that situation. That was just it. Gibby and any girl he ever tried it with called it Being Romantic. Sam called it A Good Time. Gibby didn't know that, or else he wouldn't have thought she dropped her guard around him.

Nonetheless, Gibby had brought up an excellent point. Sam's new attitude as a relentless sexy tease was beginning to see no boundaries. If she kept it up, she could be in trouble. Someone had to talk to her. Carly must have already tried, but of course it didn't work. Sam loved Carly but Freddie knew she had no intentions of turning into her, which would be what happened if she followed Carly's advice.

Freddie groaned, and decided that he had to try.

He waited for her outside her pastry deserts cooking class. She came out shoving an apron covered in flour and cake batter into a bag. She stopped when she saw him, almost smiled.

"What's up, Fredweird?"

"Wanted to talk to you about something," he said with a shrug, "Care to let me walk you back to your place?"

She looked him up and down, shrugged, and fell into step with him. She smelled like flour, there was a streak of it on her chin. He shoved his hands into his pockets but before he could start, Sam said,

"Coming to Gibby's tonight?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah."

"What's up?"

"I've been…" he started then decided to just get it over with. "I've been worried about you."

She stopped, frowned, "Why?"

"The way you are with guys—you should take it back a few notches. You might get into trouble."

Understanding lit her eyes and she started walking, "Carly put you up to saying this?"

"No—I'm honestly worried about it."

"Well don't, Fred-Wad. Mama can take care of herself."

"No you can't," he said without thinking. Next thing he knew, she had a hand full of the tender hair at the back of his neck and one arm twisted around his back, "You think I can't take care of myself, Benson?" she hissed. He screamed as she twisted his arm harder.

She let him go. His eyes pricked with tears of pain and humiliation—lots of people had just turned at his girly scream to see her hurting him.

"Not all of us are complete girls like you, Benson." She said and left.

**Sam**

Maybe that night it had less to do with giving Gibby a chance to make his move than proving her strength once again. Carly was helping Gibby load his dishwasher when Sam got Freddie up against the wall. The loud crash and rattle of the picture frames probably alerted Carly and Gibby to what was happening, which accounted for why they stayed safely in the kitchen, like suddenly there was going to be a health inspection and that room had to be spotless.

Or maybe they were, like, slow-dancing or something soft in there, which ever. It was cool with Sam, she didn't mind. She had a mission. She'd learned Freddie's limits, and now it was payback for assuming _she_ was the weak one.

Freddie'd had that look in his eye as she'd moved toward him—that hilarious terrified look mixed with intense desire. She'd deliberately voted for the movie with the steamiest love scene in it—it always made it easier to torture Freddie later. She smirked and shoved him into the wall for a kiss a little deeper than where they usually began. He showed his usual resistance but her wardrobe choice had cut that resistance time in half.

She wore her favorite daisy-dukes and a shirt that showed off her flat stomach. She was very proud of her stomach, considering how much food she ate these days. If she had to spend most of her evenings exercising with Carly, then she was going to show off the results. Within seconds, Freddie's hands were warm and sliding all over her prized middle-section and he groaned a little bit. The nub. She giggled and rubbed against him, brought her exposed thigh up so that his roving hands could find it more easily. When they did, he trembled and, with force on her hips, turned her so that her back was against the wall, and he buried his face in the nape of her neck.

Whoa, this was new.

Time to stop. When he went to find her lips again, she turned her head away. His eyes, which had went kind of glazed over, focused on her,

"_Noooo_," he whined. He literally whined.

She smirked, rolled her eyes, and pushed him away. "That's manly." She said.

He sighed and stepped away from her, looking utterly miserable, confused, and not a little bit pissed off. He leaned on the wall opposite her in the hall, hooked his thumbs into his pockets. "I don't understand you, Sam."

"If I wanted you to understand me, I'd let you." She said with a shrug. He frowned, eyebrows crunching together and lips parting in surprise. "I'm your friend. Why don't you want me to understand you?"

She didn't have an answer. She scoffed, rolled her eyes, "You do know me better than most people, I guess." She almost smiled.

He scratched the back of his head, "That's not enough," he said.

She rolled her eyes again and headed into the living room, shoving him hard into the wall, "Quit being such a prancy, Benson."

**Sam**

Freddie killed Gibby at Dance-Dance Revolution. Sam gave herself all the credit; he had energies to burn off. Thank you, Puckett. Anytime, Benson.

Despite the noise, Carly had fallen asleep curled up on the couch. Sam's last pull on the straw in her glass of coke made loud slurping noises and she clunked it down onto the coffee table and stood to stretch. "Way to go, Fred-Wad."

"Thanks," he said, breathing heavily from the exertion. He pulled up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Sam caught the abs there and the ridges his hips made and gulped. When he dropped the shirt, he turned and bent to help clear up the dancing pad. His jeans fit him very well and made his butt so beautifully ham-shaped. It was a real pity he was such a nub.

Gibby had stripped his shirt off hours ago and was using it now as a kind of towel, which he rubbed over his girth. While chubby enough to jiggle as he danced, his width was more muscle than actual fat. Sam saw his smiling eyes soften when they landed on the sleeping Carly. Freddie noticed, too, and traded a secret smile with her.

"Let's not wake her," Sam said, "Let her sleep there. She looks comfortable."

"Yeah," Freddie said, checking his watch. "It's late."

"But she's your ride," Gibby told Sam.

"I'll walk home." Sam said with a shrug.

"No," Freddie said at the same time that Gibby caught his eye and reminded him of the conversation they'd had in the chemistry lab with a single hard look. "I'll drive you."

Sam snorted. "I'm out of your way."

"I don't mind." Freddie said. Sam began to protest but Gibby interrupted her with a firm, "It's late, Sam. He's driving you."

Freddie's care smelled like lemons, the floorboard carpets didn't even have any mud on them, let alone trash, the interior light worked, and the _bing, bing, bing_ that meant the door was open was a pleasant kind of sound unlike the somewhat ear-splitting _eeh, eeh, eeh_ of older models. Sam felt like she was in a teacher's car or something. It was too nice and grown up for a college kid; his mother must have bought it for him, to make sure he had maximum safety on the road or something like that—yep, there were the side door-airbags.

"I can totally just take the bus," she said as Freddie slid into the driver's seat.

"Can it, Puckett. I'm driving you," he said firmly.

"Well, well, well, look who's growing a backbone."

"I'll just worry about you if you walk," he said. She remembered his attempt to warn her about her promiscuity. She rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Part of me thinks you will be," he said, and the softness of his tone threw her for such a loop that she forgot to give a sarcastic remark on his choice of the word _part_. "But most of me knows that even a girl as tough as you won't beat a bullet or a knife of something."

Sam smiled despite herself, "You sound like Carly." She sighed, "I've got such weenie friends."

"You've got weenie friends who care about you."

"_You_ only care about me because I make you feel like a man," She said.

He huffed, "What part of you bruising and belittling me makes me feel like a man?"

She smirked at him, "I was talkin' about the other stuff."

"Oh," he'd shut his door and the interior light had already gone out, but there was enough light from a streetlamp for her to see that he was blushing. "Well," he rubbed his hair, laughed in a hot expulsion of breath.

Suddenly, Sam felt like she was on some kind of date or something. Butterflies filled her stomach. What the fat-cake?

"I would be flat lying if I said I didn't enjoy it," he admitted, "But the rest of the time it just confuses the chiz out of me."

"That's life, Benson," she said, "Deal with it."

"I'm starting to be resigned to that." He sighed. "But could you please—I'm going to hate myself for saying this—but could you dial it back a bit?"

She laughed, "Why?"

"It's making it hard for me to—"he stopped, waved a hand around as he searched for a word, "To _enjoy_ other girls."

It was Sam's turn to push out a lot of hot air in a laugh, "Yeah, right. As if a nub like you doesn't enjoy every girl he possibly can."

"It might be hard for you to believe, Sam," he said as he pushed the ignition button and turned on his lights, "But there aren't as many people that are immune to your intoxicating ways as you might think. You're like a drug and it's driving me crazy."

Whoa.

Sam hadn't found her breath yet as she asked, "Really?" it came out smaller than she would have liked. He paused halfway through turning to back out, and looked at her. There was a click and interior lights down between the seats came on, illuminating his surprised features from below. "You didn't know?" he asked.

No, she hadn't known; she'd _hoped_—after all, what was she practicing for if not to reach that level of hotness?—and she had thought maybe she was achieving it from the number of boys trailing after her, but none of them had ever said as much. She shook her head and Freddie's shocked features melted into something softer.

"Ohhhh," he breathed, long and softly. She laughed, grabbed the back of his head and pulled him to her for a kiss. This wasn't like the other kisses—the ones meant to torture him. This one was like the ones from the beginning, back before she became the tease, the ones that meant something going into them. She broke the kiss, sat back in her seat.

He just sat there, still twisted around in his seat to face her. She looked at him, seeing him dimly in the light from his headlights. He just looked back, his mouth open.

"Drive," she ordered him. There was a click as he released his seat belt—he'd put it on before starting the car, the nub. The belt hissed back into its place as he took her chin between thumb and forefinger, pulled her back to him. For the first time since she'd commanded him to lean on that balcony all those years ago, _he_ kissed _her_. He didn't keep his lips together this time, either.

**Carly**

She woke went something cool and heavy fell over her. She looked up into Gibby's wide-eyed expression. "Sorry," he said, "Didn't mean to wake you."

"What time is it?" she asked, sitting bolt upright and grabbing her phone and as she did, a blanket—the cool and heavy thing which Gibby had just dropped over her—slid to the carpet.

"Past midnight," Gibby said. "Freddie took Sam home. We didn't want to wake you."

"Oh," Carly tucked her hair behind her ear. Gibby was in his pajamas—nothing but some old grey sweats.

"I was just going to bed—but now that you're up, you're welcome to take it. I can sleep on the couch."

"No," Carly laughed, "I'm the guest, I'll take the couch." She laid back down, pulled the blanket back up.

"If you're sure—um," he looked down his hall, then at her, "I have some, uh, old shirts or something if you want something more comfortable to sleep in."

She realized that her shirt and jeans were a little restrictive. She sat up again, smiling shyly. "Okay, yeah. Thanks." She stood. He dipped into his room as she went to the bathroom. As she began removing all her necklaces and bracelets, he arrived in the doorway with a pair of sweats and t-shirt. "You might have to roll the sweats a bit."

"Yeah," she said, "Thanks."

"No problem," he said and pulled the bathroom door shut. When she emerged, feeling swamped but comfortable in his clothes, she found him still in the living room. The tv was on and he was pushing a lot of buttons on his remote. "I can set an alarm on this thing for you, if you want."

"Yeah, thanks," she said, "Um, nine should do it."

"Okay…" he fell silent as he worked. Feeling too weird to lay down while he was there, she padded across the carpet to his living room window. He was on the second floor of the apartment building. The fire escape framed a view of the street out front. She frowned—was that Freddie's car there with the lights on?

**Freddie**

It was happening. She wasn't telling him to stop—if anything, she barked at him to hurry up. He'd cut the engine, left the headlights on but killed the interior ones, and some how made it over the divide between their seats. There had been a mild hang up and some laughs as they struggled to get the passenger seat in his space-age car to recline a little. Now items of cloths that had previously been a barrier were gone and she was forgetting to be mean to him in any way as they were gasping for breath.

Suddenly, headlights from a passing car illuminated things for a minute—neither of them really noticed this. Nor did they hear the squeal of tires and the growl of an engine as it reversed. They did hear the shout of, "hey!" but weren't really focusing on anything but each other until the passenger side door opened.

Sam shrieked. Freddie did, too.

A guy—one of Sam's toys—had crazy eyes as he grabbed Freddie's arm and hauled him out of the car to shove him against it. Freddie had his pants back up as the other young man demanded, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Go to hell, Jack," Sam snapped, leaping out of the car as she buttoned her daisy-dukes. She shoved the guy. He grabbed her by the hair.

"Hey!" Freddie cried. Jack had a handful of her hair, held close to her scalp. He jerked her this way and that, getting her around the open car door. Freddie followed, grabbed the guy from behind.

All hell broke loose.

**Gibby**

He hadn't heard the squeal of the tires, nor the distant shouts because he'd become momentarily distracted by the way Carly's toes—painted with a glittery purple paint—sank into his carpet. Carly gasped, though, and pointed. "Oh my god!" She whirled, "help them!"

He hurried to the window to look—saw a topless Sam, _whoa_, being man-handled by some tall, thick dishrag in a black hoodie, and Freddie shirtless and laying on the ground.

Gibby pushed his window open and went out feet first onto the fire-escape. He hit the ladder, which immediately gave under his weight and crashed down to the pavement below and then he was running.

**Sam **

Ouch. Okay. This was scary—and, boy, was she going to _dismember_ Jack, ouch, just as soon as he let her go anyway. Freddie jumped him from behind, but Jack beat him off with just one hand. She'd punched him twice but that had only made him release her hair to grab her forearms. He was a lot stronger than he looked; she could not wrench her hands free. He was shouting—calling her names, threatening Freddie.

If she'd know he was such a psychopathic dishrag, she wouldn't have given him the time of day—she told him as much and he shook her with enough force to make her aware that she was topless as her hair went into her face. He jerked open the passenger side door of his car and ordered her to get in.

Freddie was getting to his feet from where he'd fallen into the gutter. There was a horrible looking skin on his side from where he'd slid on the pavement and he seemed unable to stand up straight as if he had cracked some ribs, but he was hurrying to her, crying, "Don't, Sam!"

"No, chiz, Benson!" she snapped as she gripped the top lip of the car door so that she couldn't be shoved in.

Suddenly, there was the noise of crashing metal across the street and a moment later, something heavy barreled into Jack. He released his painful grip on Sam as his weight disappeared beneath that of the dark beast—which turned out to be Gibby in nothing more than sweat pants.

Within a moment, he had Jack's arms twisted behind his back. "This is two hundred pounds of Gibby," he hissed in his captive's ear, "Say goodbye to your fudge." And Jack screamed as the grip on his twisted arms tightened. Sam thought she heard something crunch.

Freddie reached her then, wrapped his arms around her. "Are you okay?" he demanded.

She was shaking—from anger or fear, she didn't yet know. She pulled out of Freddie's embrace, hauled back and hit Jack square in the nose. Hot blood exploded under her knuckles.

"What's going on here?" Gibby demanded—from anyone in the street—as Carly arrived on scene, barefoot and in Gibby's clothes.

"That—"Jack used a word that made Freddie tense, "is cheating on me!"

Before anyone had time to say anything, Freddie was in Jack's face, breathing loudly though his nose, "Actually, no," he said, "She's been sleeping with me for years—if she was cheating on anyone, she was cheating on me with _you_. So I'm the one that should be mad." Then he brought his arm up high and rammed an elbow hard into Jack's solar plexus.

Sam gasped. Gibby let Jack go and he slumped to the pavement, fighting for breath.

"Sleeping with you for years?" Carly echoed lowly so Jack couldn't hear.

Freddie shrugged, looked at Sam who was standing with her arms crossed for modesty. He blushed, "I was in the moment," then he went to her to help her shield herself. She smiled up at him, eyes ablaze with laughter and awe. For a moment, just a moment, Freddie believed he saw-was that endless and unconditional love in there?

But he was probably just imagining it. Don't get carried away just because you've seen her naked, Benson.

And if she did love him, it was probably just blind infatuation as it had been with Carly all those years ago. She'd just seen him hit a guy for her after all—and wearing nothing but his tightest jeans and muscle, no less. "Thanks," she breathed.

"You're welcome," he said in a new low voice, which made Carly start and Gibby guffaw, and then Freddie kissed her. He decided he didn't give a damn if he was just her bacon; he'd take it.

**Gibby**

Jack crawled back into his car, mumbling something about needing to see a doctor, and drove off. Gibby watched him go, still teaming. He logged the license plate number away with plans to make the jack-hole pay even more. He turned to see Freddie and Sam making out—Freddie's reward for being the hero. Gibby didn't even get a thanks or a praise or anything from either of them. Carly arrived at his elbow there in the middle of the road, her arms crossed, one eyebrow up and sassy smile playing on her lips. She looked at him,

"You totally kicked his butt," she said. She went to her toes. With her cool fingers grabbing the back of his neck, she kissed him.

**Fin.**

_A/N: So, yeah, Katy Perry songs... We got daisy-dukes with bikini's on top, the love drug, and the skin tight jeans. Honest-to-the-fan-fiction-gods, that _wasn't_ planned—it just happened!_

…_Hmmm, would a Waking Up in Vegas Seddie fic be too cliché? brb, gonna go write it and find out…_


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